Je Suis Qui Je Suis
by woodbyne
Summary: AU. After being dumped for Alfred's new job Matthew is strung out, addicted and miserable. Broke and in need of a hit he visits his dealer, who gives him a bad batch of heroin and leaves town. He's saved by blue eyes. FrancexCanada, Schutzengel back story
1. Hey Mr Tambourine Man

**Something else that needs out of my system. It may or may not be more than a one shot. Companion to ****Mein Schutzengle Il Mio Protetorre****, but YOU DO NOT HAVE TO KNOW THE PLOT. It's almost totally unrelated back story. In fact, if you read this and then that, it would make more sense.**

**Ditz is a character I made up a long time ago. His name is actually Christophe. He's a drug dealer dumb enough to sample his own goods. Like Matt, his choice is heroin. **

**This contains drug abuse, bad language, mental instability and depression. This might make it a little difficult to read (like, incomprehensible-difficult, not particularly heavy). FRANADAAAA~!**

**Just close all the windows, kids, and remember that you can't fly. **

~====o)0(o====~

He scratched absently at the back of his neck, a sorry smile drawing at the corners of his wide mouth.

I'm sorry. The words beat a franticly complacent tattoo in this fever dream. He isn't sorry. He can tell.

I need to give this my all. This is something that I want.

But hasn't he been told a thousand times before, and a million after that? There's nothing he wants more than me. Was that a lie? Didn't he want him anymore?

It's not that I don't want to be with you, but this comes first. You're too distracting.

How can he be a distraction when no one ever sees him? The invisible man. The invisible Matthew. No one notices him, quietly high. Quietly. Quietly.

Not even Alfred, who has told him he loves him, again and again and again and and and and. The fever dream is ending and Matthew can feel the twitch of his limbs again. They're thin, so thin. Sticky-insecty thin. He wants more of that sweet stinging dream, so much more. Wants the sting of that antiseptic anaesthetic, because he can't fade if it hurts.

He doesn't have any money, but he chooses his clothes carefully. Ditz might take another form of payment. He's done before. But he was high that time, and he doesn't know what else he can do.

Short shorts, a little ripped and ragged around the edges. A loose shirt, thin cotton, low neckline. Hair is a little messy, and he looks like a girl. If he's high enough, that should be alright. It's only been a few minutes since he came down and already he can feel the twitches, the itches the sweats. Nausea rises and explodes behind his eyeballs. But there is nothing. Empty nothing. Only the retches that start that hack-hack-hack-hack cough; chipping axe-like into his airways.

Jitter-jitter, Tap-tap-tap. Nod-nod. Blink-blink, cough, cough.

Who's that coughing?

What? I didn't hear anything?

Who's that? Sorry. I didn't recognise you. Your face is gone. Ha, ha, ha, ha, hack, hack, hack, hack, hack.

Funny little jokes he tells himself. With a smile and a cough he sets off. Ditz's isn't far. Not that Ditz is his real name. Something with an E. Silent E. On the end. Something French. Fritty name. Pretty name. French name, Fritz? Ditz. Chris. Ditzy Fairy Chris. Ditzy Chris Fairy. Chris fey. Christophe.

That wasn't so hard.

He remembers when he could remember. That was nice, to not have silly rhyming ways to remember. But he also remembers remembering the pain, oh that hurt.

Said he loved me. Would never leave me.

Silly me, for ever believing.

Course he would forget. He'd forget his own head if he wasn't shoving a burger down his throat.

Try this, Alfred. It had been a trick, he knew. Carlos was trying to get Alfred hooked. But he was so pathetically grateful for the attention – why was it that people always assumed they were one and the same? – That he took the needle. Thank you Carlos. Dumb Cubana. Can't you even tell the difference between your friend and the dude you hate. Some friend. Stuck it in his arm, sweet and sharp. It hurt but the high was places he could go that he couldn't.

Good, huh?

Dumb fuck. It was more than good. It was bliss. Euphoria. It was a place where he was never rejected, always noticed. Didn't need to be noticed. It curled warm and safe inside his chest and stuck catty claws into his lungs when it needed to be fed. Or else the warm happy would go away. All he wanted was the war and happy. When he didn't need to be noticed.

And there was no Alfred. That hurt, but that was good. Pain was grounding. And Matthew needed a little pain with his high. Sometimes the needle would go in to hard. That would bruise, and hurt and the little violet on his skin out bloom a little while. Shy violets. Shy Matthew. Matthieu. He spoke French too. Christo-ditz didn't. No one in this stupid country did. What wasn't back home? Scholarship kid. New-place varsity. Lost the scholarship. High in class. Acting weird. Failing school. Kicked out. Crashed with Carlos. Forgot who he was. Who am I? _Je suis qui je suis_. That's who I am. Am am am am am am.

Matthew is who I am. Mattie knock-knock-knocking on Ditz's door.

"Ditz, you there?" Some parts must be rational. Thinking. They make his voice a little high, a little girly. It's hard, but he can. Can. I can do the can can. Hello?

Who's there?

Me! I'm here! I am who I am.

Oh, it's . . . you. He doesn't recognise, but he remembers. Slim little hips, soft blond hair. Big blue eyes. Remembering is almost as good as knowing.

Now is a bad time.

Why is it a bad time, Ditzy, don't you want a little company? There are bags in his hands. Big bags.

Where are you going, Ditzy? Don't leave. I'll fade.

I'm going Marty. Away.

Mattie. Away where?

Away far from here. I need to go. Look, I just shot up. There's some in the kitchen. No. Let's go together. It'll be more fun. Mattie pulls out his own needle. Some neat-freakish behaviour means that he always has one. No diseases for him.

Together they draw the bile brown from the hot metal. Clink needles together with shaking hands.

Cheers Marty.

Mattie.

It's a hard hit, but that's good. Hard is good. Hard is raw and hot and no emotions. Just being. Just darkness. Ditz is leaving. What's his name again. Chris Ditz. Why are you going?

But it's not hard enough. Only a little, and blackness creeps fingers across his eyes blocking everything out he would move but he can't. The twitches. The itches the sweats are back. He calls, but only a bubble of cough pops in his throat.

I'm Matthew into the silence.

Wakes up, Ditz is gone. The fever is hungry in his skin, feeding, growing. It burns. It's hotter and rawer than the hit; it hurts more, too much. Strung out like a wire. Pockmarked plague buboes on his arm, on his chest. Little white itches. Itches itches itches twitches. Needle still there. Pulls it out. Grabs, misses. Now where are his remembering kisses? Do you remember, Mattie, remember, remember? Yes you do? Clever, Mattie, kisses for you.

No kisses.

Door breaks down. Fever sweating. Eyes wide. Sweating. Switching. The feeling of eyes pulsating in his head. My head. Pulses, undulating eyeballs pop and burn. Make it stop. Arm is hanging, needle still in. Syringe hanging , wagging like a puppy's tale. Strung out. Hung up. High on a wire. Hanging on the wire now. Like an arm. Like a needle. Strung out. Washing line. Tightrope. Clothespin high slips and falls. Sickening churning stomach. Someone retches, nothing comes out. Headache, blood rushing through my ears. Haven't eaten in too long. Not hungry. No. Want more. Make this stop too hot too high not high enough too scared no more.

Voices voices. Strangers voices reverberate beat his head. A whimper thing, emaciated as another limb slips between cracked lips. They bleed a little and the war wet makes all this worse and tears spill from the pit of his belly, thin wailing whimpers. I don't want to do this, make it stop, please, just kill me.

Make it stop. Please, please please. Make it stop. Make the hurt stop. Please kill me. _Please_. Little beggar words pray from the blood beaded cracks in my lips.

Click click click clack heels. Shiny man shoes. Who are they, man and woman hot and burn? Under my skin, it hurts. Who are they?

What's your name?

Not who are you, what is your name. He wants to know.

M-m-m-m-m-Matthew.

Me and my M we go mmmm mmmm mmmm that little sesame street bitch sang. Me and my twitchy lips sang mmm mmm mmm.

Matthew, cher, can you stand?

Gentle fingers, not too hot on my arm. They pull out the wagging tail and I open my eyes. There's a man crouched down in front of my, blurry in the heat. Clear blue eyes. Not so deep sky blue as the eyes he wanted to forget. Brandelis blue. French Blue. Cool blue eyes cool and hot. My eyes are dark, I know. Indigo. Not blue not purple and aaaah it buurns. I need it. Give it to me or kill me.

He's taken something bad, Francis. Christophe isn't here. Let's go.

No, strange lady. Don't leave me. I want to stay with the blue eyes who asked who I am. The blue eyes slips a hand under my arm and pulls me up. I'm shaking and convulsing. He's convulsing. Having a fit. Spasming. He's having spasms.

Leave him, Francis. What's a crack head to you?

I don't know.

Leave him Don't leave me. He wants to die. I don't want to die. It's not his fault. Yes it is my fault, blue eyes Francis. Strange lady in a green suit don't leave me.

"Please"

It doesn't even make sense, but the word has blue eyes Francis lifting a quivering, sobbing boy onto his shoulders and carrying him from the door. The small logic is working and the mind is clear. Again logic works and clear words come out;

"Thank you, Francis," sigh-whisper words that whimper as they're spoken in my throat.

"You're welcome, Matthew."

"Mattie."

The sigh words don't correct, but invite. They invite him to say Mattie instead of Matthew, not Mattie instead of Marty. The whisper word doesn't belong to him this time:

"_Matthieu._"

~====o)0(o====~

**Erm. Right. That doesn't make much sense, but it's not supposed to. I think I'll carry on with this. You'll notice when Matthew starts thinking sense again, believe me. **

**I do not write from personal experience. This is pure fiction. **

**Please let me know what you think?**


	2. Dream On

**Ok, so Mattie isn't entirely level headed just yet, but be patient. Oh, my holy hallelujah, you guys have no idea how much research went into this! I've never been addicted to anything before. Well, not anything that I had any trouble quitting. **

"_Ring around the Roses_** is not really a 'guy song', Ruth, even if he **_**is**_** high out of his mind." – My mother. I didn't have the nerve to tell her he was gay. Mom can be a **_**scary**_** motherfucker sometimes.**

**CBJC, ht4eva, Cat'sdon'tcry, Tala, Polttava Pyromaani**** and Skullover; huggles for you all!**

**If you can get your hands on **_Depeche Mode's __Dream On_** while reading this do it. It's commonly thought to be about heroin addiction and withdrawal, and is generally a damn good song. Some lyrics for you:**

~====o)0(o====~

_Feel the fever coming  
>You're shaking and twitching<br>You can scratch all over  
>But that won't stop you itching<em>

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew lay, sweating and mumbling on Francis's futon couch, moving constantly. Antonia looked to the Frenchman by her side and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well, _mijo_, what now?"

"Now he detoxes."

The Spanish woman sighed heavily for what had to have been the twentieth time in fifteen minutes.

"Francis, what's a junkie to you?"

"What's a cokehead to you, _Chérie_?"

"Those were entirely different circumstances and you know it."

"How so?"

Silence greeted his question cordially, as it had on the many times when he'd asked her what she had been thinking to pick a near-rabid cocaine addict up off the streets. Not that he was objecting; at least now he could return the favour.

"Watch him for me? Just for a little while. I have some supplies that I need to get if I'm going to help him."

"What if he doesn't want your help? Did you think of _that_?" Antonia snapped, folding her arms. She was all for helping the needy, but the boy looked half dead, and he was withdrawing badly. And you didn't just go abducting people off the streets; it brought down the cops, and the cops spelt bad news for a budding dealer. And let's not forget the time that her second-in-command would be spending on his new charge. That was most certainly not conducive to business. What if this boy made Francis relapse? And let's not forget the hypocrisy of a dealer helping someone get clean. It was just bad entrepreneurial sense!

"If he didn't want my help, then he wouldn't have asked," the Frenchman called as the door clicked softly closed behind him.

~====o)0(o====~

Voices, voices, chitting, chatting. They're talking about him. It's cool, blue; blue-blue-cool eyes Francis talking with green suit lady. He remembers, remembers, remembers, and remembers. Green-eyes-green-suit, Mexican? Maybe. Mijo. blue-blue-cool eyes Francis mijo? His he younger? I don't speak Spanish. He doesn't speak Spanish, but Carlos Carlos. Dumb Cubana from Havana. He calls me Mijo. Called him Mijo because he forgot his name. Dumb fuck. Dumb dumb dumb, so dumb.

The heat is gone. No heat. Heat is fading, pulling seeping fast into this soft. What is this soft? Squishy soft. Smells like roses. Posies of roses. Ring-a-ring-a-rosies, a pocket full of posies. Atishoo, atishoo, we all

fall

d

o

w

n

Drink this. Water, lukewarm. Tastes bad. Stale. Baking powder? Green suit lady is talking to him. I don't speak Spanish jumps to his lips. Stomach churning pushes the words out of the way. Water is sick, bile salty, bile slick.

Splatters like spilt intestines into the bucket. Somehow that's good.

There's no heat at all now, and he shivers into the soft, soft, rosy soft. He opens an eye, and it's beep blue. Blue like midnight. Falling into midnight. Falling down. Falling down.

We all fall down.

That's supposed to stop you throwing up, _mijo_. Oh well. I hope Francis get's back soon.

"Me too," shudders are beginning now, hard and convulsive. His tongue is bleeding, bitten by skeleton chattering teeth. Glasses break out the slip-and-slide all the way down his nose. They fall into the tub of saliva sick, and Antonia gags.

I'm not getting that. No of course not. That would be gross. Sick gross. Gross sick. He moves to grab at them, but she pulls his hand back.

Our bleeding. Truth. Blood is trickling spit out the corners of his open mouth. Swallows. Blood. Tastes like protein. Raw meat and egg and blood. Tastes like loose teeth and cloves after hockey practise and the dentist.

O~ Canada~ Our home and Native land. True patriot love. We stand our love for thee.

The coughing starts again. Hack-hack-hack. Splat. Dark bubbly spit-and blood stains on the midnight. On the floor. On the rim of the bucket. Rim shot. But none in the bucket. Hit and miss. Bad goal. Off side.

That's disgusting.

I'm sorry. Moaning, whimpering. No sense any more. The cold is too much. The cold burns and burns and burns. His legs are in a vice of cold. So cold. Frozen icy bones, glacial marrow. Make it stop, make it go away! It's so cold.

_S'il vous plait_! Make it stop! Door creaks, floorboards squeak. Shiny man-shoes. Blue, blue, Francis is home. Thank God.

_Dieu_! Please! Francis, make it stop! It hurts!

Where does it hurt? Someone is stepping back. Green suit lady. Someone else kneels besides me. Cold cloth to my head. He shies away. No! No cold, too cold. My bones hurt, please!

I know what is going on. Antonia, fetch me the red box from the chemist bag, please?

Rattle, rattle, click, click. Box handed over, lickety quick.

Warm hands grab my leg. There's something cold on them and strong fingers, long fingers, squeeze skinny calves hard, rubbing them better. And then it burns. Whatever is on his hands soaks into the skin and starts cold fires in his muscles. But it heats fast. Legs still shaking. Still hurts.

Antonia, run him a hot bath, as hot as you can stand.

Alright. Huffing sigh. She's not happy. Wonder why. What's wrong with her life? She's not screaming in a stranger's house. She doesn't need any more. Double helixes of French and English aren't heaving from her mouth like puke. She isn't begging for more. She doesn't have the burning cold in her bones.

Do you have any? Give it to me? Please? I need it so much. It hurts without it.

Pain blocks his mind. My mind. I can't function, it's all blocked. Nothing can get through, no cognitive ability is registering. Arms picking him up, strong arms and strong fingers that smell like burning and roses.

Can you stand, Matthieu? How should I know? Stomach churns, heaves, retches. Spit down Francis's front. Blood too.

If you didn't like this shirt, _cher_, you could have said so.

Shirt is fine.

_Chemise c'est de la merde _

_Shirt is shit._

Well, it is now that I've puked on it.

You speak French. Not a question, but still a question. A riddle is that?

_Oui. Je suis Canadien._

That's nice. Stand here. He orders. He stands. Open your eyes.

Eyes open. Wall before me. Kind of blurry. The pain is worse. Standing on a platform, A panel.

A treadmill?

_Oui_. Run.

You expect me to run? I can't even stand!

_Oui_. Run. You'll feel better. He starts walking at first, but picks up speed. Breathe rasping a little. One foot, two foot. No more cold. Three foot, four foot, shaking stops. Five foot, six foot, he's talking to me, and I can think and understand. I can answer.

"What's your name?" he asks basic questions.

"Matthew Williams. I'm from Quebec. I moved here for collage."

"And you had enough spare income for a crack habit?"

"I got in on a scholarship. I was working to pay it off, and my best friend got me hooked."

"Some friend."

"He thought I was my boyfriend," Matthew looked around the room. It was small, but tastefully furnished. Expensively, too; lots of silk, velvet, chiffon and tassels. Lots of roses as well, which would explain the scent. Francis whistles long and low,

"That's harsh." A harsh bark forces its way through the Canadian's lips and it takes him a minute to realise that it was a laugh.

"I got used to it." There was pity in the Frenchman's eyes.

"Won't he be missing you?"

"He never even noticed me when we were together, so I doubt he'll miss me now that he-" Matthew is cut off by a sound, part hiccup, part sob that bursts from his chest like those things in _Alien_. He wipes his eyes on his arm, realising that he's in his shorts and t shirt still.

"Could I ask some question?" he asks, sniffing a little. The tears keep coming, and so do the sniffles, but they aren't from sadness.

"But of course, _cher_. Ask whatever you like," Francis says, leaning against the wall in front of the treadmill and smiling winningly. Matthew looked at him hard. He was shorter than the Canadian by a few inches, but older. He had pale blonde hair that fell in waves to his shoulders. His face was made out of sharp angles that made him beautiful, rather than handsome. A healthy Wheatfield of stubble covered his chin. There is peace in his fresh blue eyes. _His_ eyes were always dusty blue, like a washed out sky or the old west.

"Who are you?" the question was strange to his tongue, he's spent his whole life being asked that.

"_Je suis_ Francis Bonnefoy," he laughed, "I hail from Paris, France. I'm in America on business."

"What sort of business?"

"I work for Antonia. She pushes drugs." Matthew stopped running and fell backwards onto the floor, his mouth gaping.

"Well now I know why you picked me up! I would like to go home, please." Wherever home was now. Where was he, even?

"I picked you up so I could help you, Matthieu," Francis said, extending a hand to the fallen boy, "come now, get up and keep running. The cramps will come back, otherwise." The Canadian shakes his head.

"I want to go home?" why is that even a question? He doesn't know. Pain is rubbing up against him like a cat, returning even after you've kicked the damn thing off the couch.

"I want to help you get clean," Francis whispers. His face is kindly, but so was Ditz's.

"I don't want to get clean."

"Well I'm not going to give you drugs."

"Why not, you're a dealer?"

"Antonia got me clean. I'm paying it forward. Isn't that admirable?" He asks hopefully.

"But you still peddle drugs." Francis sighed.

"I help who I can, and I never sell. I help Antonia launder the money. I'm a gardener, not a dealer."

That explained the plethora of roses at least. Now that Matthew could see, they stood in vases and wreathes all over the apartment.

"Why do you want to help me?" the boy's voice was small. Pain was seeping back into his bones now and he wanted it to stop, wanted this all to go away; he wanted to find Ditz and a hockey stick, and shake the dust out of him.

"Because you asked, _cher_," Francis replied, softly, kindly, still holding out his hand to help the boy stand up.

Reaching up, Matthew took his hand.

~====o)0(o====~

**Happy Birthday, Daddy!**

**Meh, guys. Sorry this isn't much. My art exam is tomorrow, so I can't stay up all night writing for you, much as I would love to. Also, my dad would do a serious Dexter on me if I kept him up all night the night before his birthday when he has to work while he's sick. Especially when I gave him the flu in the first place.**

**I am a good daughter, I swear. **

**Review? **_**S'il vous plait?**_


	3. Heroin, She Said

**Skullover, Catsdon'tcry, Polttava Pyromaani , Tala, compa16 and DeiDeiArtistic, thank you all so much! **

**The lyrics to **_O Canada_** in the previous chapter are purposefully incorrect. ^_^**

~====o)0(o====~

The bathwater was scalding hot, but it faded the pain and stiffness fade from his muscles and bones in the same way the treadmill had, though the water didn't manage to clear his head in quite the same way; it left him drained and fuzzy-headed, but not in pain. Not desperate to escape his body.

Matthew was therefore somewhat grateful that his French host had worked his sideways logic and convinced the tired Canuck that it would be a good idea to have some company in the bathroom. Now that he was submerged in this magical water it was quite nice to have someone scrubbing his back, because he certainly didn't have the energy to do it.

Francis rubbed the sudsy washcloth in small circles over Matthew's back, removing layers of grime and senselessly collected filth to reveal the soft, pale skin beneath. It was marred here and there by a few beauty spots; angel kisses, he liked to call them.

The young man seemed to be under some kind of Epsom-salt bath induced spell, and pliantly let Francis tilt his head back and pour water over his thickly matted hair. With a mixture of attraction and curiosity, he watched the look of absolute peace on the boy's face as the warmth of the water washed away his aches and pains. He knew just how good those few minutes of freedom, of normality, felt.

Decanting a generous measure of pink, rose-scented mercury into his cupped palm, he worked it through his fingers and then worked his fingers through Matthieu's hair, lathering the shampoo. Gently he massaged his scalp, nimble fingers prying dirt from the strands and working out the mess of knots.

"Where do you live, _chou_?" He asked, working on a particularly difficult rat's tail, muck and soap coating his hands a dirty grey, foam speckling his jeans as he sat on the edge of the bathtub, the smooth arch of the other man's back stretched far too tightly over his bones.

"A little ways off campus, I split the rent with Carlos," he replied sleepily, lulled into a happy daydream by the steady rhythm on his head, enjoying the feeling of not being forgotten.

Francis smiled kindly, "_Non_, _cher_, I meant your address."

"Oh, right," he muttered the address and sank back into his bath-induced happy-bubble. The place wasn't very far away, which was good. On to phase two;

"Would you like to stay with me? I know about withdrawal, so I can help you, and it would be easier to stay clean, if you will excuse my little joke," he smiled again, pushing lightly on the boy's forehead so that he could rinse the slime from his hair. The fresh stream of water purged the filth from the locks, which to Francis's surprise were a beautiful, natural red-gold; strawberry-blonde, as opposed to the straw-blonde he had expected.

"I don't know you at all," he said, half turning around to face his host, logic finally having reared its ugly head through the layers of murk that shrouded his brain.

"And yet you let me wash you," Francis countered, squeezing facial soap onto a clean washcloth.

"I-" Matthew paused, "call me stupid, but I trust you. Alright, I suppose I'll stay with you," he conceded.

"_Tres bien_. I shall fetch your things this afternoon then. Come; turn this way so I can clean your face."

Obediently, the Canadian turned, and the Frenchman gently rubbed the dirt from his face, brushing past the veil of grime to reveal more of the same soft skin, this time dusted with pale freckles, barely visible against the skin. His nose was slightly crooked, the mark of being broken and not set fast enough, there was a faint white scar over his right cheekbone and his lips bore the slightest signs of being split in quite a few places. The older man wondered how many fights he could have gotten himself into. He worked carefully around the eyes, which were large, and an unusual shade of blue, almost purple, for a second, when Matthew tilted his head, he could have sworn that the blue flashed violet. There were two little divots on either side of his nose where a pair of spectacles must have sat. He had seen those earlier, and would have to ask Antonia about them. Speaking of;

"You wouldn't mind staying with Antonia while I get your belongings?" Francis asked, not trusting Matthew on his own just yet. The younger man drew back cautiously, pulling away from the warm cloth that was now working its way over his shoulders and down his chest.

"She isn't going to try and sell me anything, is she?" he asked, half hopeful, half afraid. The benevolent smile that graced the Frenchman's features never faltered as he continued his duties, skating quickly and efficiently over certain areas he would definitely have preferred to linger on, but thought better of it.

"She would not _dare_."

~====o)0(o====~

Though the house itself wasn't a great distance from Francis's residence, the neighbourhood was drastically different; the homes were ramshackle and largely derelict. The gardens either ran amok or had dust eddies spinning across their sandy bowls.

The Frenchman knocked on the door, and on receiving no response, pressed the buzzer, though he highly doubted its functionality. After a few impatient moments' wait, a large, tan-skinned man opened the door, obviously stoned, a beer in one hand and a spliff in the other.

"_Hola_. What do you want?" he asked curtly, eyeing Francis's expensive clothes, and the Lexus in the driveway and deciding that this was perhaps not someone to be trusted.

"Are you Carlos?" he asked, wrinkling his nose against the fragrance of cannabis that poked its delirious tendrils out from the door and wafted in his face. The larger man regarded him with, if possible, even more suspicion.

"Why do you want to know?" Wouldn't anyone ever learn that answering that kind of question with a question only solidified one's guilt? The Frenchman had accompanied his Spanish friend on enough of her inquisitory outings to know when the chased found themselves caught.

"I'm here for Matthieu's-" he began tartly before his was brashly interrupted.

"Who? I don't know any Matt – Oh! Right! _Mickey_. Sorry man; can't help you. I don't think I've seen him since some time yesterday," look of recognition dawned across his face like the first sunrise, but his body language was still shut off. Francis, thoroughly appalled, gaped in horror at this man.

"That's because he's been with me! I found him yesterday, withdrawing after a bad hit!" The Cuban paled under his caramel tan,

"Withdrawing? From _what_?" he demanded, folded arms falling away from his chest in shock.

"Heroin. A _friend_ got him into it," Carlos now looked physically ill.

"_Ay_. **Shit**. _Heroin_? But that was- wasn't it? I thought-" Francis pursed his lips angrily,

"_Oui_. That's what he said. If it helps, I don't think he bears you any ill-will. But I would be much obliged if you would let me collect his belongings. He will be staying with me now," he couldn't keep a touch of pride out of his voice as he spoke.

"Right. Of course," Carlos stepped aside, allowing Francis and his boxes into the house, and leading him to a back room that could at one point have been clean and tidy, and doubtless still was under the moderate layer of discarded clothes, pizza boxes and soiled spoons. There were burn stains on the carpet and a few powder stains. Unusually, the used needles were all in a steel-netted trash can. There were a lot of them. Various objects were scattered about the room in varying states of disrepair. Even more shocking than the mess, however, was the bear. There was a stuffed grizzly bear dangling from the wires where a light had once, swinging forlornly in a chill breeze. There was a battered hockey stick lying abandoned on the floor besides a large and scattered pile of curly synthetic stuffing. The bears seems had split and with the exception of its head, for which the wire noose was acting as a tourniquet, the entire body hung, gutted and empty in a macabre parody of a piñata.

Together the two men stood and stared at the bear with a mixture of shock and, in Francis's case, fear. Taking in a strange druggie was one thing, but a _violent_, strange druggie? That was a whole other ward of the psychiatric wing.

"He took the break-up pretty hard," the Cuban said heavily, as though the fact burdened him, "I warned him about that Capitalist pig. You know almost everyone thought they were brothers. Most people thought Mac was _him_. No one ever confused _him_ for Mick."

"_Him_?" Francis asked, curious despite himself.

"_Alfred F Jones_."

Nothing further was said on the subject of _Matthew And The Great Break Up_ while they packed up the man's few positions into three medium-sized boxes, though Carlos did provide a few useful and interesting facts; he was an orphan; he was a sports fanatic; he loved animals and was part of a save-the-bears organisation. He had also been in his final year of his Bachelors of Commerce degree when he was expelled. The stirrings of a plan began to form themselves in the Frenchman's mind, and he carefully stored it away for another day.

"I'm glad you're looking after him. It'd be healthy for him to be somewhere that doesn't remind him of that shit-eating son of a whore. Even if you do kinda act like you're his dad. No offence"

Francis raised an eyebrow, "None taken."

"Just don't screw around with him; Mickey is a good kid."

"So is _Matthieu_."

"Right. Just," he huffed out a breath that was almost visible as a chill settled into the late evening air, "Just tell him I'm sorry, okay? I don' want Mattie to think I forgot about him."

Nodding silently, Francis plonked the last box into the back seat of the Lexus, closed the door and drove off into the sunset, thinking that whatever compelled him to take this boy into his home had better have some serious positive karmic repercussions, because it was beginning to smack of more trouble than it was worth.

~====o)0(o====~

**Please let me know if you love/ like/ are indifferent to/ dislike or wish eternal damnation upon this fic. **

**Sorry that it's short and abrupt, I stopped being able to see straight around 7pm and it's now 10pm.**

**No one is allowed to call me a wazzock faced pillock for not updating sooner when I had writer's block on my other fic, which held up my entire production line. It is not appreciated and doesn't make me write any faster. **

**Advance thankies for reviews ^_^**

**~RutheLa**


	4. Fire and Rain

**Cat'sdon'tcry, Goldpen, DeiDeiArtistic, Skullover, Tala, compa16, FiveLeggedTangoand VoidOfDoomAndCupcakes, thank you all so much!**

**Thank you to FiveLeggedTango for reminding me; all the chapters are named after songs that have to do with heroin; chapter 1: Mr Tambourine Man – Bob Dylan. Chapter 2: Dream On – Depeche Mode. Chapter 3: Heroin, She Said – Wolfsheim. Chapter 4: Fire and Rain – James Taylor.**

~====o)0(o====~

_I've been walking my mind to an easy time  
>My back turned towards the sun<br>Lord knows the cold wind blows it'll turn your head around  
>Well, there's hours of time on the telephone line<br>To talk about things to come  
>Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground.<em>

~====o)0(o====~

Francis heard the screams before he was even halfway through the entrance to the apartment block. Dropping the boxes carelessly just inside the foyer, and sprinting up to his apartment, his panicked fingers shaking and fumbling with the keys; just as he had feared, the screams were loudest just outside his door. After about a minute of useless grabbing and victimless cursing, he threw the bunch onto the floor venomously and pounded on the door,

"Antonia! What's going on?" he yelled, slamming his fist into the wood again.

There was a rattling and the Spanish woman wrenched the door open, pulling Francis inside violently,

"Get in here! Why did you leave me alone with him? He's been like this for an hour! He'd just finished running and he was tired, and he said he was uncomfortable with me helping him take a bath and, _Ay__Dios_, he couldn't stand and he was throwing up all over everything and I just-" she said, almost screaming herself in order to be heard above the Canadian's tortured cries.

"I don't speak French!" she said desperately, "and he won't speak English. I don't understand. I don't know what's wrong!"

"Calm down, Antonia, please!" he said, laying his hands on her shoulders, "Go get some coffee, alright? I'll call you when everything has calmed down." She nodded, looking pale and drawn under her caramel skin tone.

As soon as the door had shut behind her, Francis knelt down besides the boy, careful to avoid recent upheavals, stroking sweaty hair back from his forehead.

"_Matthieu,__chou,__Ce__qui__est__faux?__Où__ça__blessé?_" He asked, rubbing the taught muscles of Matthew's too-thin legs, trying to make it relax before it snapped like the abused strings of a violin.

"_Ça__fait__mal!__Tellement!_" He wailed; his voice hoarse, "_Il__fait__trop__froid__et__je__ne__peux__pas__dormir!_" the Canadian moaned, "I'm so tired."

Francis huffed a sigh; he was calming down, speaking English again. Antonia would be pleased, though he guiltily relished the opportunity to speak his mother tongue without getting any funny looks. Either way, it would appear that the withdrawal had peaked, it could only get better from here on in.

"It's alright, _Matthieu,__vous__pouvez__vous__détendre__maintenant,__je__suis__ici._"

"Francis?" the boys muscles were melting now, relaxing, but so strained that they trembled violently at even the slightest movement.

"_Oui.__C'est__moi_."

"_Merci_," he breathed, his relaxed limbs beginning to spasm again.

"Not at all, _chouchou_, come now," he picked him up and carried him to a high stool and a counter, "take these," he pushed two pills and a glass of water towards the boy, generic medication, one for nausea, one for cramps. Nodding, Matt cupped the pills into his mouth with a quivering hand and gulped the water, getting most of it down his front.

"_Tr__ès__bièn_," Francis praised, "now open up and take this," he watched the cracked pink lips open trustingly and laid the tablespoon of Nyquil on the pale tongue, stopping a shiver of something before it became lust. That was thoroughly inappropriate.

"Let's get you cleaned up, and then we can eat something and you can have a little rest. How does that sound?" Matthew nodded, swallowing the bitter medicine thickly and watching as Francis stripped the sheets and disinfected the mattress and re-made the futon so that it was clean and inviting once more. He watched the Frenchman mop up content-less vomit; all bile and spit. He watched him lope into the bathroom and listened to the thunder of water on ceramic.

His mind blurred as he was picked up again and immersed in hot water. Having a thought was still the mental equivalent of wading through aquagmire, but he could move easily. Or he could if he wanted to. The medicine and the strain that his weak muscles had just endured were making it very difficult not to fall asleep as competent hands stroked his body clean.

And yet somehow, despite his best efforts, he remained awake. He was barely conscious of being lifted from the water once it began to cool and carefully wrapped in something huge, warm and fluffy.

"You need to help me with this, _chou_," a rich voice rumbled in the distance as first one arm was guided by steady, warm hands through a sleeve and then the other. His head was eased through a fleecy neck-hole.

Smiling absently, his eyes having drifted shut some time ago, Matthew cuddled into his favourite red hoodie. It had been a gift for his last birthday at the orphanage. It was warm and safe; it got him through everything.

Underwear and then a pair of tracksuit pants were slid up his automatically co-operative legs, and those helpful hands patted his hips lightly,

"There we go, _chou._ All done."

"Thanks," he murmured, the effects of the medication making his mind swim. Francis's face went a little red as he made to stand and Matthew swayed his clothed crotch not a hair's breadth from the Frenchman's nose.

"Come on, let's sit down," it wasn't until he had sat Mattie back down at the counter and taken some leftovers and bread out of the fridge that he felt the blood trickling down over his lips. It must have been the blush that did it.

"_Merde_," he hissed, dialling Antonia and popping his Chicken a la King in the microwave at the same time, "_Antoine_," he said, "_oui_, everything is settled. Could you bring some tissues and toilet tissue over, _s__'__il_ _vous_ _plait_? I've a nosebleed and I used my stock cleaning up."

Hearing the half sighed, half chuckled affirmative on the other end; he hung up, tossing two pieces of toast in the toaster.

"I'm not actually hungry," Matthew breathed, sleepily, _just__tired_. He could barely form a coherent sentence in his head, and yet he still couldn't sleep. What was wrong with him?

"I know. That's why the toast is for you. You may not want to, but you must eat." The boy moaned incoherently, snuggling deeper into the over-sized garment.

"Mm'kay," he muttered.

In the end, Matthew only managed three-quarters of a slice, which was actually a decent amount, considering. Antonia arrived five minutes later to find Francis sitting on the futon with Matthew curled up, head resting on his chest. The Frenchman had blood all over his face and an icepack on the bridge of his nose.

"_Hola_," she called softly, dropping the keys that Francis had abandoned outside onto the counter top. Smiling, she tossed a box of tissues to Francis, who broke it open, dipped one in water and proceeded to clean up his face with one hand, stuffing the thin paper up his nose with the other.

"_Merci_," he sighed, leaning back, "I hate nosebleeds. They're so messy."

"That they are," she agreed, pulling out a tissue of her own and wiping at a smudge just under his lip, "do you want me to take him while you clean your face?"

"If you would," he eased the Canadian away from his chest, "_chouchou_, Antonia is going to take you for a moment, _oui_?"

"_Oui_," he replied. Smiling, Francis held him up while Antonia took his place. She smiled down at him; the kid was cute when he wasn't screaming enough to wake the dead.

"Aw, he has your hair," she grinned at her friend as he walked into the bathroom. There was a crash, and a few muttered curses. Giggling a little, she stroked the boy's hair as he rubbed his head into her thigh, listening to him hum.

"Don't even joke about that," Francis grumbled, drying his face. His sour expression melted a bit as he looked down at the young man she was cradling. Antonia shook her head,

"Ay, Francis! Curb your instincts! That's a terrible idea! He's sick and confused. But," she grinned, "That does explain the nosebleed."

Francis shrugged. She was right.

~====o)0(o====~

**The nosebleeds are legitimate! I swear! Remember I said that Francis used to be a crackhead? Snorting cocaine is very bad for the lining of your nose, and it's permanently damaged his, so if it's too hot, he over exerts himself, or there's just a lot of blood in his face, he starts spouting red. **

**Thank you for reading, and thank you to Woodsy for posting and adding in the French, which I will at some point come back and fix once I consult someone. ^_^**

**~RutheLa**


	5. Dead Flowers

**Thank you ever so much to; Goldpen, compa16, Cat'sdon'tcry and Tala!**

**I'll get back and edit the French once I get my internet back, thank you to woodbyne for posting. **

**And no, I shouldn't be studying. **

**Song: Dead Flowers – The Rolling Stones**

~====o)0(o====~

_When you're sitting there  
>In your silk-upholstered chair<br>Talking to some rich folks that you know  
>I hope you don't see me<br>In my ragged company  
>You know I could never be alone<em>

_When you're sitting back  
>In your rose-print Cadillac<br>Making bets on who's talking to you during the day  
>I will leave my basement room<br>With a needle and a spoon  
>And another whore to take my pain away.<em>

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew soon discovered in his first conscious days after his withdrawal had peaked that, as a roommate, Francis was naked more often then he wasn't.

The first instance of this was when Matthew was once more trying to fall asleep. The Frenchman was preparing for bed, and he had wandered through the living room, where his charge was, to the kitchen, toothbrush in hand, in order to turn the light off. When poor Mattie, unaccustomed to such blatant nudity, flushed bright red and managed a small and embarrassed,

"Francis, you're _naked_."

His only response had been a casual shrug and a foamy-mouthed, "Oui, what of it?"

The second, third and forth instances happened in quick succession, Matthew running on the treadmill to placate his cramps, only to find Francis walking past him quite happily and utterly without clothes. Matthew chewing on his first full slice of toast and having Francis pop up in the buff, asking if he wanted to take a bath a bit later (that had cause a blush red enough to rival the Frenchman's nosebleeds.) Matthew bent over the toilet bowl, relieving himself of a different piece of toast, having birthday-suit bedecked Francis holding his hair back from his face and muttering soothing nonsense in French.

There had also been that encounter, and Matthew would never forget it so long as he lived, once he had resigned himself to staying with an amateur nudist, when Antonia had come to visit. The Spanish woman had waltzed serenely through the door,

"_Hola, mijos_!" she called, dropping her keys onto a hook.

"Antonia!" Francis had called happily, turning to face the door from where he had been helping Matt stand up. The Canadian, in an attempt to maintain some decency, had grabbed the nearest vase of roses and held it in front of the other's crotch.

The other two occupants of the room stared at him blankly for a long moment before they cracked up laughing.

"Mattie," she had gasped, "It's alright, I see Francis naked all the time; it doesn't bother me at all."

The younger man frowned, a senseless little spark of humiliation burning in his chest and lighting his cheeks.

"Oh," he muttered, walking off into the next room and closing the door. He sat down carefully on the edge of Francis's bed and sighed; resting his forehead in his palms. That had been stupid. They were friends, or going out, whatever, of course she had seen him naked. They had probably slept together. Angry at himself, he punched his knee.

~====o)0(o====~

"_Désole, chou_," Francis said, dispensing the evening's pills, Antonia having long since left, "I should have explained. Antonia and I are good friends. She's used to my oddities."

Matthew nodded, "Have you two ever, _you know_?" he asked, thoroughly ashamed at himself for even thinking to.

"_Antoine_ and I?" he asked ruminatively, "there's a thought. But the answer to your question is no. _Antoine_ is a devote Catholic and believes in saving herself for marriage. I am agnostic and don't believe in marriage. There alone lies a problem. Another," he walked the younger man to his futon, "is that we work together. The impact personal interference would have on a professional relationship would be," he sighed, "what is the word now? Cataract?"

"Catastrophic," Matthew corrected, "go on?"

"Yes. Catastrophic. Well. I think that second to Catholicism, the biggest problem any romantic relationship we might have would be that she firmly believes that I have at least thirteen venereal diseases."

The younger man had to laugh at that as he climbed beneath the covers, "Why on earth would she think that?"

"Well, I was a man of the night for quite some time," he answered, patting Mattie's back when he started coughing, more from surprise than any symptoms of withdrawal.

"You were a _prostitute_?" he asked incredulously, lying back.

"_Oui_. Cocaine is not cheap, and I was always told that if you are good at something you enjoy, and you can make money from it. . ." he trailed off with a leer. Matthew wrinkled his nose,

"That's a sad." He sighed.

"How so?" the Frenchman asked, inclining his head curiously.

"Selling your body to people who don't care, who just want entertainment. That's sad." Francis raised an eyebrow,

"With the way you were dressed, I would say that you were well on your way to the same situation."

Matthew remembered Ditz's hands fisting callously in his hair, and shivered.

"Are you cold?"

"No. Just," he shuddered again, "remembering."

"Memories can be terrible things," Francis said, his voice sounding of regret, "would you like me to stay with you again?"

Matthew nodded. Sleep was a rare commodity in this house, apparently. Francis claimed to suffer from dreadful nightmares, and Matthew simply found himself unable to sleep.

"Would you like me to tell you a story?" he asked, letting the younger man's head fall against his shoulder once he was settled. There was a soft hum of assent, and Francis cleared his throat.

"Once upon a time in Paris, which is without a doubt the most beautiful city in the world, there was a young man," he laughed a little, "this young man was very handsome and very charming. He was well off and popular. All the young ladies and all the other young men loved him. But one night, this young man went to a party and another charming young man gave him magic powder. He said that it would make all his problems disappear. The young man laughed, he told the other that he had no problems. The new man insisted, he told the young man that one sniff of this magic powder would transform the way he looked at the world. So the young man tried it. He fell in love with the magic powder in the same way as the young ladies and other young men were in love with him. Quickly he became consumed by the powder. He spent all his money buying it, and when he had no money, he was turned out onto the streets.

"One day, while he was leaning against a wall in a dark alley not far from a cathedral, a man approached him, and offered him money for his body. They young man accepted, and soon he had plenty of money and he could once again buy the magic powder. He was happy. He was making other people happy, people who were lonely and needed a little company.

"A few months after that, a young girl began attending extra lessons at the Cathedral. She was preparing for her confirmation. Every day she would stop and smile at the young man, and ask him how he was. He always smiled back and asked the same. They quickly became friends. One day, she started bringing him a rose, and every day after that. Some days it was white, some red, but it was always one or the other. The day before she was confirmed, the young man was taken away early, and she was mugged and killed in the dark alley where he always stood, and his white rose was painted red with her blood. In her honour, he brought a bouquet of white roses to her cremation. Her family let him burn it with her."

"What was her name?" Matthew asked quietly, his cheek resting on the smaller man's shoulder.

"Joan. Antonia found me a week later, high out of my mind," he was quiet for a long time, "I burn a white rose on her birthday every year, so she can have them, wherever she is."

"You're a good man, Francis," the younger man said, the cadence of the other's voice having lulled him into a half-sleep, and he pressed his lips into Francis's shoulder as he slipped into unconsciousness.

~====o)0(o====~

When he woke up an hour or so later, Francis was asleep, but there were tear tracks on his cheeks and there was a faint crusting of blood around his nostrils.

It was then that Matthew noticed a single, beautiful, white rose in a lone vase on the countertop.

~====o)0(o====~

_Take me down little, Suzie, take me down  
>I know you think you're the queen of the underground<br>And you can send me dead flowers every morning  
>Send me dead flowers by the mail<br>Say it with dead flowers at my wedding  
>And I won't forget to put roses on your grave.<em>

~====o)0(o====~

**I'm not so sure about the second verse of the song, but I'll correct it on Tuesday if it's wrong. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed a depressing French bedtime story. **

**~RutheLa**


	6. Mr Bownstone

**Catsdon'tcry, Skullover, Goldpen, compa16, DeiDeiArtistic, Tala and KajiMori! My dear, dear lovelies! Thank you ^^**

**Oh my holy hallelujah guys! Sorry this has taken me so long. TTwTT**

**Song: Mr. Brownstone – Guns N' Roses**

~====o)0(o====~

_I used to do a little but a little wouldn't do it  
>So a little got more and more<br>I just keep trying to get a little better  
>Said a little better than before<em>

_We been dancing with Mr. Brownstone  
>He's been knocking<br>He won't leave me alone  
>No, no, no, he won't leave me alone<em>

_Shoved it in the bindle and I shot it in the middle  
>And it, it drove me out of my mind<br>I should've known better, said I wish I never met her said I,  
>I leave it all behind<em>

~====o)0(o====~

The nights were too long. Each one stretched out into a fitful eternity as Matthew lay there, starting sometimes at the ceiling, sometimes out the window. Eventually the blue-black ours would end, slowly being faded away by the cold grey light, and he would turn to Francis, who often fell asleep besides him, and watch the way light crawled over his face. If the Frenchman knew, he probably wouldn't sleep there anymore, but it wasn't as though the Canadian had anything else to do.

After Francis had stretched and got up, they would fall into the little routine that they had set up, almost without a word. Matt would run on the treadmill and Francis would make breakfast. It was usually something small and simple; Matt could barely handle that, let alone anything rich or greasy.

It had been about two weeks since Joan's birthday, and neither of them had really said anything to each other. One was naked, one was clothed. Matt stayed home while Francis went to work.

It was a fairly peaceable agreement.

"Francis?" Matthew had asked, sticking his head around the bathroom door frame. By the sickly parlour of his face and the sounds that had only just stopped emanating from the tiled room – it occurred to the Frenchman that the acoustics in there were really quite good – that he had just finished throwing up.

"Oui?"

"I hate to ask, but do you have a spare toothbrush? Mine's given up the ghost," he grimaced embarrassedly; he hated imposing upon Francis when he had done so much for him already.

"Yes, of course, cher," Francis laughed, walking to the bathroom and opening a cupboard bellow the sink. Inside were piles, stacks, towers, even, of toothbrushes in assorted colours, "Pick your colour," he smiled.

Matt stared at the dental hygiene equipment; all of them still in their wrappers. Hesitantly, he picked up a red toothbrush, "Ah, thanks," he muttered, uncertainly, "Why. . .?"

"The toothbrushes?" his French host smiled, "I generally have a lot of friends over."

"Friends?" he asked, nonplussed, "But then why don't they bring their own?"

"Not that kind of friends, cher," Francis said kindly, a patronising little smirk playing about him mouth.

"Oh."

"Oui."

The Canadian looked down at the red toothbrush in his hand. It looked like embarrassment and humiliation. It looked like sex. He had always felt a little like he was intruding on Francis' life, and now he knew he was imposing.

"I became accustomed to certain . . . Lifestyle, shall we say, in Paris and much like cocaine, it's hard to give up; though less detrimental to my health, I should think. I like sex," He shrugged nonchalantly.

Again, all Matt could say was,

"Oh."

~====o)0(o====~

"Matthieu, I'm home," Francis called, tossing a set of keys onto the countertop and running a hand through his hair. It had been an unpleasant day to say the least. Though he did suppose that if the poor girl couldn't pay her bills on time then neither could he. But still, why the hedge clippers?

"Matthieu?" he called again, more softly, wondering if he was asleep; he had been getting more sleep of late, which was a good thing, although sometimes when Francis thought the other was asleep, he would turn around and find those indigo eyes wide and staring vacantly into space.

There was no one in the bathroom. There was no one in the bedroom. There was no one in his lounge-stroke-kitchen.

There was no one in his tiny apartment.

"Matthieu?" he said into the resounding silence.

Had he done something wrong? Had he gone back to Carlos? What had happened? He was doing so well. Had he given in?

Even when you don't need it, you'll always want it more than anything. More than living, or breathing. That feeling, that craving wrapped itself around your nervous system and set in its claws. It never left. He could still feel it now. The desire, stronger than any lust, to feel that angelic high. That invincible buzz.

Francis shook his head. No. that couldn't be it. He was stronger than that. They both were.

He was disappointed, not in Matthieu, but in himself for ever having believed in him at all.

He was just some druggie from the streets. What had he been thinking? Taking in a stranger.

He was probably rabid.

He was sitting on the floor, his back against the futon.

He was a failure.

He wanted a pop.

He could feel blood streaming from his nose, but he didn't care. He would kill to do a line right now.

Blood on his shirt, in his beard.

_Merde_.

Wine.

~====o)0(o====~

The key scraped in the lock, and Francis looked up darkly at the blond figure swimming blurrily towards him.

"Francis? Are you o-" the older man flung his arms around his neck.

"You left!" he slurred moodily, burnt sienna flakes of blood wafting from around his mouth as he spoke.

"Yeah, I went down to the sports grounds to play hockey, I left you a note . . ." He trailed off in confusion.

Now it was Francis' turn to say,

"Oh."

"…Stupid of me, because I've got bruises on my bruises now… Lots of fun. … again."

He wondered when his head had fallen against Matt's leg. When had they sat down?

"…are you?"

"_Non. Demandez-moi encore une fois quand je suis sobre_." He muttered unsteadily.

Shaking his head indulgently, the Canadian fished a cell phone from his host's pocket.

"Antonia, hi, it's Matt- What? Antonia, please, slow down, I don't speak Spanish! Ok, fine. He was-? That's, well- I played some sport. No, that's not a code for anything. I left him a note! Now? He's drunk and passed out on my lap. He gets what when he's-? Ah!" Gingerly he removed the Frenchman's hand, "Yes. Grabby. I got it. I'll see you in the morning. Thanks, I appreciate it. Bye."

He hung up the phone, looking down at Francis' drink flushed face and a new dribble of blood.

"I need to keep you away from the booze in future," he murmured, pulling a tissue from the box on the coffee table and wiping his nose, _that was a nice thought_, he smiled, using his other hand to stop the semi-conscious and totally naked Francis from molesting him.

~====o)0(o====~

**I hope you enjoy it!**

**Someone tell me if the French is off? Speaking of, I still need to go back and fix the last to chaps. O_O**

**~RutheLa**


	7. Protège Moi

**Catsdon'tcry, KajiMori, DeiDeoArtistic, Goldpen, EmoChickOfDeath, Skullover, gouketsuwarai; you're all utter stars!**

**So my mouse just fucked itself up the back end, so I'm using my tablet (small mercies)**

**This song isn't really about drugs, but it does carry an important message for this chapter, and I'm probably going to be using quite a few Placebo songs. Not all of them are French.**

_Protège moi_ – Placebo.

~====o)0(o====~

_C'est le malaise du moment  
>L'épidémie qui s'étend<br>La fête est finie on descend  
>Les pensées qui glacent la raison<br>Paupières baissées, visage gris  
>Surgissent les fantômes de notre lit<br>On ouvre le loquet de la grille  
>Du taudis qu'on appelle maison<em>

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew woke the next morning, bleary and disorientated after three hours of sleep, to find a naked Francis face down on his crotch.

Suddenly very much awake and very much aware of the fact that there was an attractive Frenchman with his _face_ pressed into the fly of his _jeans, _Matt began easing himself upright and out from under his host. Whom he was now hosting. On the H. S. S. Matthew Williams. _Damn_.

That said, it wasn't that the Canadian particularly minded Francis' face –mouth especially – staying exactly where it was. If fact, he really quite liked the idea. A lot. But he wasn't entirely sure where the elder blonde stood on sucking his dick, so it was probably better if he removed him from the, ahem, problem that even if he had not directly caused, he was certainly exacerbating.

Which sounded like masturbating.

Which was something Matt _really_ wanted to do right now.

Carefully sliding off the futon – which was rapidly becoming more slept-on than Francis' bed, Matthew made his way towards the bathroom in order to, well, you know. Ride the moose.

~====o)0(o====~

The pair of them had fallen into an easy domesticity that could easily have been mistaken for marriage by an outside observer. Now that Matt was getting better; he was sleeping for more than an hour a night and he managed to keep most of his food down, though he still didn't eat all that much, Francis was happy to leave him alone. But only once he had checked and erased all harmful contacts from his phone.

Not that Matt minded all that much. Francis was a great guy; he took care of him and he didn't complain about it. In turn, the Canadian did his damndest not to impose too much upon his hospitality.

It honestly, really, did bother Matt that he was intruding on Francis' accustomed lifestyle, much though he may disapprove of it. He wished that there was some way to give him what he wanted – or needed? – Without bringing in some outside floozy. Or himself. As attracted as he was to the Frenchman, Matthew wasn't entirely sure about the other's sexuality – he had mentioned that he had slept with men, but what did that really mean? – and he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to get involved with a personality as addictive as Francis'; it would be hard to get away from him, and he didn't want to be a needy ex when the other was clearly in a much healthier place.

But a couple of things changed this morning.

Matthieu had gotten up earlier than Francis, for a start. This was odd, because even though Matt was a morning person, Francis was a crack-of-buttfuck-dawn person, and was generally the first person in the entire apartment block to be awake, let alone any single apartment.

That was unusual.

What was downright queer, in more than one sense of the word, was when Franci waltzed into the kitchen still half asleep – he had slept in his own bed the night before – and kissed Matt on the cheek with a smile and then yawned out the words,

"Good morning, chouchou."

"Morning, Francis," the Canuck returned his greeting dazedly, "Are you alright? You don't really seem like yourself this morning."

"Hmmm?" Another yawn, this time accompanied by a spine-popping stretch that lifted the hem of a comfortable grey t-shirt enough to expose a slice of midriff that would have gone well with a side of ice cream and chocolate sauce, "_Oui, pourquoi_?"

"You just seem a bit off."

"Ah," Francis stretched again, and it was only when the curtain of shirt came down gain that Matt could drag his eyes back to his face, "I just had a bad dream last night. It always unsettles me."

The Canadian nodded slowly, passing his host a plate of French toast before serving himself.

"_Merci, chou_," he said, chewing appreciatively on the fried bread, eyeing the syrup that his ward poured over his; Matthieu did have quite the sweet tooth, "aren't we being a little ambitious?"

"I had a craving," to put something French into his mouth, even if it was only in name, "and I thought since you weren't up yet, I could do something nice for you; you've been so good to me."

"It's nothing," Francis started, but was cut off.

"No, it's not. I don't even want to think about where I'd be right now if you hadn't found me. I don't have any kind of family at all and no friends to speak of. I could be dead in a gutter right now, and you seem to be the only person on the planet who cares. That means a lot to me, and I want to do something for you in return." That was practically a parliamentary address by Matt's standards and he went a little pink. He didn't really like talking that much because usually no one listened. But Francis did.

Indeed Francis was listening. He was listening intently to Matthieu's words and trying very hard not to weave his own perverse meaning into them. _Cher Matthieu_ wanted to do something for him? He could think of several very enjoyable things that the young Canadian could do for him, and several more things that he could do for the young Canadian.

"That is not necessary," he murmured, looking down in time to see his phone light up on the counter before it buzzed itself over the edge and towards the floor. Deftly he caught it and answered,

"_Salut_? Ah, _Antoine_!" he sighed, "_Oui_, _cherie_, I know. Today is really not a good day to- I suppose I do. Fine then," this time his sigh was heavy instead of teasing, "You know I hate his. I'll see you in half an hour. _À bientôt_."

He put down is phone and scarfed the rest of his toast, looking moribund.

"What's wrong?" Matt asked, picking up the plates to wash them.

"_Ce n'est rien_. Antonia has a job for me and I really don't feel like it. I just can't stand a lot of what she does."

"Then why do you stick around?" Matthew's only answer was a careless shrug as Francis got up and went to go get dressed.

A few minutes, when he came back out in a pair of dark jeans and a black shirt, Matt was dressed to match.

"C'est mignon, chou, but not funny at all," Francis said, shaking his head.

"I'm coming with you. For moral support. I don't want to be paid for it or anything," he added quickly, "I just don't want to let you go like this; you look like you feel like shit."

The Frenchman nodded and sighed, "If there's no helping it I suppose you can. I can't stop you. Just watch yourself."

~====o)0(o====~

In retrospect – and of course we all know about the clarity of hindsight – Francis should have quite flatly refused to go with Antonia. His night-time terror had left him drained and as stable as a salmon trying to can-can with only one fin.

It was like this, in quite possibly the worst condition to do so – that Antonia lead Francis into a coke den. The owner was cutting a tidy profit and he wasn't handing over nearly enough.

Now the reason the Spanish woman even brought her friend along at all was purely for window-dressing. Despite the fact that he was a little on the short side, had long, wavy blonde hair and always smelt faintly of roses, he was a sturdily built man and did look like he could do someone grievous bodily harm should he be called upon to do so.

The fact that he was loath to even pull out weeds because he didn't like to hurt them wasn't spoken of.

Matt didn't look quite so buff. He was still regaining the body drugs had stolen, but he was tall, and without his glasses to distract from the scars on his face, he cut a reasonably intimidating figure.

It was like this that the two men escorted Antonia into the den, flanking her. They stood resolutely as she smiled and greeted the man to whom she was about to commit a violence and walked into his office.

Antonia had it covered.

~====o)0(o====~

It was right beside him. Just sitting there. No it wasn't. It was just sugar. Or flour. Or corn flour.

Who the fuck did Francis think he was kidding?

Who leaves a plastic bank-bag of corn flour in the middle of a fucking coke den? Nobody, that's who.

It was the ultimate incentive.

That perfectly dirty gutter glitter.

And he wanted it so badly. It was there, if he just stretched out his fingertips-

A large hand came down on his wrist. It was gentle but firm and he looked up to see Matthieu shaking his head slightly.

"Get off me," Francis hiss, shaking his arm in an effort to have it released, "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm paying you back," Matthew said with a small smile.

~====o)0(o====~

_Sommes nous les jouets du destin  
>Souviens toi des moments divins<br>Planants, éclatés au matin  
>Et maintenant nous sommes tout seuls<br>Perdus les rêves de s'aimer  
>Le temps où on avait rien fait<br>Il nous reste toute une vie pour pleurer  
>Et maintenant nous sommes tout seuls<em>

~====o)0(o====~

**This chapter is a little longer, but not by much. This story isn't going to be going on for too much longer ^^**

**Lovies and hugglies. **

**By the way, I'm a red-head for the week ^^**

**~RutheLa**


	8. Coming Up Roses

**KajiMori, 1silentmouse, Goldpen, Skullover, DeiDeiArtistic, Catsdon'tcry and EmoChickOfDeath, thank you so much!**

Coming Up Roses – Elliott Smith

~====o)0(o====~

_I'm a junkyard full of false starts  
>And I don't need your permission<br>To bury my love  
>Under this bare light bulb<br>The moon is a sickle cell  
>It'll kill you in time<br>Your cold white brother all right in your blood  
>Like spun glass in sore eyes<br>While the moon does its division, you're buried below  
>And you're coming up roses everywhere you go<br>Red roses follow  
>The things that you tell yourself<br>They'll kill you in time  
>Your cold white brother alive in your blood<br>Spinning in the night sky  
>While the moon does its division, you're buried below<br>And you're coming up roses everywhere you go  
>Red roses<br>So you got in a kind of trouble that nobody knows  
>It's coming up roses everywhere you go<br>Red roses_

~====o)0(o====~

It had been two months since Matt had peaked in his withdrawal . Sometimes the time went quickly, sometimes fast. But the slower the time was, the worse it felt.

He knew he didn't need magic powder to make the world go away, not when it was so good to breathe fresh air, to see clearly and remember. But he still wanted to. He wanted to forget past hurt and erase the promise of future pain. But that wasn't good enough.

He was noticed now, never forgotten, guiltily doted on, even.

So why did he still want heroin so badly.

He wanted a hero to swoop down and save him from his reality when he knew full well that one already had.

And Francis, well intentioned as he might be, was not helping. Of late he had been swinging between ridiculously thoughtful and downright cold; shutting Matt out completely. What the hell was his problem? Had the Canadian done something wrong? He shrugged it off with some difficulty.

But it was like trying to kick the habit all over again, the doubt that now plagued him chewed on his subconscious, his unconscious, his conscious mind. What had he done wrong?

It had to be something he had done.

~====o)0(o====~

Francis dropped his keys onto the counter, looking eagerly around the apartment for Matthieu before mentally slapping himself through the face with something heavy. It wouldn't be healthy for either of them to get involved. Matt was just getting over his addiction, Francis was still trying to sort out his life and being a drug-dealer (much though he protested it, it couldn't really be denied) and dating a druggie was one of those things that everybody, no matter how little common sense they possessed, classified as "A VERY BAD IDEA!"

So now what was he supposed to do? He couldn't help it. He was falling head over heels for that sweetly charming man and he knew it. He knew it, and he couldn't stop it. Sometimes he would just see something that would remind him, or a little thought such as '_Matthieu is going to hockey later, he'll be hungry_,' made his heart soar.

Sometimes he found himself reaching for the young man without realising it, stroking a lock of hair away from his face, trying to make that one, wild curl stay in place, pushing his glasses up his nose for him. Intimate little gestures. They felt perfect, like he was extending himself in doing so.

Of course, then he would pull away. As much as he would have adored falling completely in love with the Matthew and the small kindnesses he provided, he couldn't.

They would both be hurt.

"Matthieu?" he called, carefully scouring the kitchen for notes (it turned out that the infamous vanishing one had been blown off the fridge).

"_Salut_, Francis," was the sighed answer, and upon investigation, Matthew was sitting on the floor of Francis' bedroom, his knees tucked under his chin.

"_Chou_, are you alright?" the Frenchman asked concernedly, kneeling besides his inamorato.

"Quite alright, I just," he sighed, looking up, his face wan, "I need it, you know?"

"I know," he said reassuringly, wrapping an arm about the taller man's shoulders, "I know."

~====o)0(o====~

"I have no idea how to play this game," Francis warned, poking the heavy-looking ball dubiously with his stick.

"That's fine," Matt laughed. It pained Francis to see that wide smile on his face. Matthew had never been so happy in his presence before, "I'll show you."

It was a happy afternoon. The Frenchman gradually go the gist of how the game worked, and proved reasonably adept at dribbling, even if he couldn't shoot straight to save his life.

"Look," Matt said patiently, correcting Francis' grip on the shaft of the stick, making his romantic heart flutter, "look at the angle of your stick. Look at the ball. Visualise a line from the ball to the goal, now hit the ball."

He stepped back and let the older man swing. He still missed, but it wasn't nearly as wide.

"There we go! Practise makes perfect!" the Canadian grinned, "Soon, we can play together. It'll be fun. Though ice-hockey is more my game," he shrugged happily, and Francis could only grin stupidly as the other man clapped him on the back with unusual vigour.

~====o)0(o====~

It was that fateful day, six months into Matthew's stay in Francis' apartment that changed the dynamic of their relationship. Francis had asked Matt to accompany him to a rose fair; and the Canadian had agreed.

He had agreed mainly because he thought taking Francis out of the environment I which they usually interacted would stop him being so fucking hot and cold all the time. He was getting so sick of being coddled one minute and practically shoved away the next. It was confusing, which was the last thing he needed right then.

He had got his craving mostly under control, but it still simmered in his skin. He was getting back into the swing of life again, he was doing admin work for a café down the road, he attended NA meetings and he played hockey. He liked spending time with his host. He liked his host.

A lot more than he either liked to admit or even should.

He'd just come out of a serious (seriously toxic) relationship and Francis was way too nice a guy to be a rebound.

But who said he had to be a rebound?

Matt shook his head a little, trying to tune back into the happy-flower-babble that the Frenchman was now spouting. The scent of the flowers was thick in the air, and it made the Canuck want to lean into Francis' hair and inhale, to compare the fragrance. He knew e used rose-scented shampoo (and everything else, which Matt would have laughed at if it didn't suit the other man down to the ground).

"I just need to go see a friend of mine for a second," the older man said, touching Matt's arm, "I'll be right back."

"Roses, sir?" A woman asked. She had a basket full of roses in all sorts of colours, and, _Well, I'm at a rose fair. . . Maybe I should get a bunch for Francis? It seems a little gay, but so am I, and it would make a nice thank-you gift, I suppose._

He picked up a bouquet of red and white flowers, breathing in their heady scent.

"How much?" he asked, stoking the velvety petals of a deep red bloom with his fingertips.

"Forty bucks. Special offer for you, sir, because you look like you have someone in mind," she smiled, and he handed over the money.

"Give those to someone special," she cautioned, walking off.

Matt looked down at his bunch. Of the eleven, five were red, five were white and one was a hybrid of both. He smiled down at them.

~====o)0(o====~

There really is no easy way to give someone a rose, especially when you like that someone but don't know if they like you back.

So it came as a mild and welcome surprise when Francis broke the ice with, "I thought you should have this; It reminded me of you," when they got home. It was a single, long stemmed rose in an unusual shade of lavender. Matt nodded and smiled,

"I got these for you, as a sort of 'thanks for letting me crash on your couch' kind of thing," he smiled, handing over the bouquet. Francis looked down at the flowers, and his smile slipped slightly as he looked at them, at the colours and quantity.

"_Merci beaucoup_," he murmured, taking them off to put them into water.

_Red roses; love and respect._

_White roses; I am worthy of you. _

_Red and white; falling in love. _

_Eleven roses; eternal love, you are my most treasured person_.

What was the likelyhood that Matthieu knew that? Absolute buggery.

"Francis, is there something wrong?" Matt asked, the elder man looked like her was shaking.

"Non. It's nothing, I'm fi-" he turned around, spilling water from the vase he was holding all down the Canadian's front.

"Merde, I'm sorry," he muttered, turning around to fetch a cloth to dry him off. By the time he turned back, Matthew had shucked his shirt and was lobbing it at the futon.

He was speaking as he faced Francis, but the older man wasn't listening. He was fighting back a blush and the resulting nosebleed.

This was the first time in months that the Frenchman had seen his crush without a shirt; Matt generally being a little shy since heroin had reduced him to what amounted to a skeleton with skin, and he had been able to wash and cloth himself for quite some time now.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from the expanse of pale skin. It looked much healthier than the last time. It had an inviting lustre about it, and flowed over muscle and bone rather than clinging to them. Squeezing his eyes shut, Francis turned back to the sink and refilled the vase; which he thankfully hadn't dropped and arranged the flowers in them, setting them on the draining board while he dealt with his nose.

"Is your nose bleeding again?" Matt asked, touching the other's shoulder lightly, only to be shrugged off quickly.

"I'm fine."

The blush. When he had taken off his shirt. The nigh-bi-polar behaviour. Getting close then backing away very quickly. Still little gestures.

Freaking out over red roses.

Red roses.

"_Give those to someone special."_

"You're attracted to me!" Matthew blurted out, forgetting for an instant that he wasn't going to be ignored, "That's why you act all love-y one minute and like you hate me the next. That's why you've been avoiding me and following me around! Why you keep touching me! I should have seen it sooner!"

~====o)0(o====~

**Guess who loves a cliffhanger? **

**Francis got Mattie an Angle Face rose. A single rose means absolute devotion, and pale purple means enchantment and love at first sight. Francis knows this. Matt doesn't. **

**I'm trying not to make Francis girly, because he is a man. But I kind of think I'm failing. **

**~RutheLa**


	9. Pure Morning

**Goldpen, 1silentmouse, Catsdon'tcry, DeiDeiArtistic, Tala and Madee-Chan! I love you all! **

Pure Morning - Placebo

~====o)0(o====~

_A friend in needs a friend indeed,  
>A friend who'll tease is better ,<br>Our thoughts compressed,  
>Which makes us blessed,<br>And makes for stormy weather,_

~====o)0(o====~

Of all the solutions to the current situation Francis could have possibly come up with, storming out was the most childish. But the most satisfying. He didn't like lying, most certainly not to Matthieu, so saying no wasn't really an option. He wanted the relief of finally saying yes, but he honestly didn't want it to be under this kind of circumstance. He wanted it to be sweet and flowery; all those things that fawning women sought in those trashy romance novels. He didn't want it to be demanded of him in his own kitchenette.

That was humiliating.

Of course he was attracted to him. Who wouldn't be? And not just attracted to him, oh no; that would be too easy. No, he was in full-blown, heartbreaking, unrequited love with him.

Such a fucking moron.

He walked down the road until he reached his favourite café, sad down and ordered his favourite mocha, adding too much sugar because coffee was bitter, and today it felt as though syrup would taste like acorns on his tongue.

A man in a wheel-chair rolled-up to him.

"Don't do it," he said, his voice touched with an accent Francis couldn't be bothered to place.

"What are you talking about?" he muttered darkly, stabbing the heart some pathetic, love struck girl had drawn in the foam of his coffee with a spoon.

"You look like you're about to jump off a bridge. I'm telling you; don't do it."

"Why do you care?" he said, swishing the spoon around so that there was only a mess of beige milk froth. His serving girl looked disappointed.

"I've been there. Life is worth living, trust me," Francis looked up properly. The man would have been tall, but both his legs were cut-off mid-thigh, the fabric of his trousers tucked neatly underneath them.

"Is it really?" the Frenchman asked quietly, asking for both himself and this green-eyed stranger.

"Yup. I've got my girl back home, and as soon as I get back, we're going to get married. I can't walk, but I'm alive and she says she'll still take me." He grinned a little, his face lighting up when he spoke about his _girl back home_.

"Lucky you. _Mon_ _amour n'est pas partagé_."

"Pardon?"

"I have a friend that's been staying with me. They just figured out that I'm in love with them and I walked out. There. Unlike you, the person I have back home is not so willing to have me, I think."

The wheel-chair-bound man shook his head, "_You think_? You mean you don't know?"

"_Non_," Francis admitted reluctantly.

"Then ask her!"

"Him."

"Oh."

"_Oui_."

"Is he. . . ?" He asked, looking uncomfortable.

"Yes. He'd just broken up with his boyfriend and I was helping him get over a drug habit. "

"Just ask him how he feels about you," the paraplegic sighed, "What's the worst that could happen?"

"He could say no?" Francis suggested as though the answer was as obvious as the fact that, yes, the sky _was_ blue.

"What if you never ask and he would have said yes?" the other man countered.

Francis contemplated that. What if Matthieu said yes? What if he got his soppy, romantic first date? What if he got a goodnight kiss? To hold his hand? A glimpse of that same stupid smile he always wore when playing his favourite sport?

Bliss.

"Fine, I'll ask him. Can I get you a coffee or anything? I feel like I owe you." The Frenchman sighed, beckoning a waitress. She looked expectantly at the two of them, but the man in the wheelchair shook his head.

"I have a Vet's meeting, but I'll be here next week if you really feel like it," he smiled grimly.

"Vet? As in Veteran? If you don't mind me asking, is that how. . . ?" Francis asked, looking pointedly at the remnants of his legs.

"Ja. The car I was driving went over a mine. A friend of mine pulled me out. He's a hero," he called over his shoulder as he propelled himself from the shop.

"Indeed," Francis murmured, paying for his coffee and leaving, he hadn't even gotten his name.

~====o)0(o====~

"Shit," Matthew said, running clawed fingers through his hair. Shit, I scared him off. I didn't mean.

"Walking out on me means yes, you know!" he yelled at the door before finding his sneakers and pulling them on. He didn't know if it was a side effect of the withdrawal, or what, but he always seemed to think better when he ran.

~====o)0(o====~

It had been four days, and they hadn't said a word to each other. They still went about their usual patterns, getting up, eating together, going to work, coming home relaxing, maybe playing a game, eating and sleeping. Which Francis was doing steadily less and less of now that he was sleeping in his own room regularly.

It was rare for him to remember the nightmares that shocked him from fitful slumber, sweating and sometimes sobbing – whether from terror or relief at waking he never quite knew – but that never seemed to make them any better.

They had been watching a movie together – it was a good movie, though utterly mindfucking – and Francis had zoned out, in between sleep and wakefulness. And, if anyone thought that he could think of anything else when the Canadian was sitting beside him, a thin lock of strawberry blonde tickling his lower lip, he was thinking longingly of Matthieu.

Matt was, inversely, thinking of Francis. The same thoughts he had been thinking about that man since he has flounced from the apartment like a teenage girl in a strop. He liked him. Well, that is to say that Francis liked Matthew. Matthew may have liked Francis, but the last time he had liked someone – no names mentioned, Jones – he'd had his heart chewed up, thrown up and spat on. Then stomped on, just for good measure. He wasn't sure he that he really wanted to go through all that again. They did say that the best way to get over someone was to get under someone. But Francis really was too nice of a guy to be a rebound. He'd been so good to him. What made Matt think that Francis was going to break his heart? Was he prepared to give his heart out for breaking.

Fuck that. Fuck Francis. It was two in the afternoon on a Saturday and they were watching quiet possibly the most boner-killing movie ever made by Canadians. Except maybe _Splice_. But it was close.

Unless you were into that kind of thing.

Which Matt seriously, seriously wasn't. It had often made him really uncomfortable that people said he and Alfred had looked like twins. Especially after watching movies like this.

The Canadian picked up the remote and switched off their pirated movie.

"I was watching that," Francis protested lightly; the first words he had spoken in days.

"No. You were watching _me_." Matthew corrected, watching the Frenchman squirm. Had it really been that obvious? Short answer? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Francis looked away pointedly, staring acid-spitting vipers at a potted plant, which almost seemed to wilt under his gaze.

The Canuck sighed, and shifted his position so that he was no longer sitting besides Francis, but on his lap. He hated to be so forward, it made him uncomfortable to foist himself onto his French host so blatantly, but it would appear that it was the only way to get his message through. What exactly that message was, he wasn't sure. All he knew is that he hadn't had actual sex in over six months and neither had Francis – he kind of hoped – and right now, it was on the agenda.

"Matthieu?" asked the shocked Frenchman, "What are you doing?"

"Trying to have sex with you," he felt his face burn red with embarrassment and he almost got up and walked away. Almost.

"This is wrong," Francis groaned, his hands coming to rest on the Canadian's waist and his head on his chest, "We shouldn't; you emotionally fragile. You've been hurt, and you trust me and you just got over heroin; I could upset your whole healing process by taking advantage of you like-" he broke off to hiss as Matthew ground his hips down onto his lap, "- this!"

"From where I'm sitting, it kind of looks like I'm taking advantage of you," Matt mumbled, hooking a leg around the Frenchman's waist, falling and twisting at the same time so that now Francis was above him, his hair falling sloppily, sexily, out of its tie.

"_Matthieu_." He breathed softly, looking down with wide eyes at the man beneath him.

Matt looked back up at him, indigo eyes searching for a response. Some kind of affirmative that made this okay. He felt a little nervous now. Scared. What if he had been wrong? What if Francis didn't like him that much? Or at all.

"If you see what you want, then take it," the Canadian whispered back hopefully, prompting his French saviour to bend down and kiss him hungrily.

~====o)0(o====~

_A friend in needs a friend indeed,  
>A friend who bleeds is better,<br>My friend confessed she passed the test,  
>And we will never sever,<em>

~====o)0(o====~

**Thank you for reading, only another chapter or so left (QeffingQ, man.)**

**~RutheLa**


	10. My Sweet Prince

**themagnificentME, Goldpen, Crazy-Lil-Yume-Chan, Anything, DeiDeiArtistic, 1silentmouse, Madee-Chan, EmoChickOfDeath, graysam, Shizuka Aralia, KajiMori and Tala, thank you all so much for reviewing!**

**My Sweet Prince – Placebo**

**In unrelated news: I have a job now that I'm finished high school, so updates may be slower. But I also have a laptop now (don't hate on my pink laptop, yo) so they might come faster. What? I don't even.  
>Also, today at work (which is the best job ever. I found a trail of unidentifiable bodily fluid leading towards the morgue!) I met a Canadian. I fucking knew he was Canadian before I met him, because I've seen his book at home and I was told. And yet somehow I still thought he was American for a minute. I'M SORRY MATTIE! I DIDN'T MEAN IT, I SWEAR!<strong>

~====o)0(o====~

_Never thought you'd make me perspire  
>Never thought I'd do you the same<br>Never thought I'd fill with desire  
>Never thought I'd feel so ashamed.<em>

_Me and the dragon can chase all the pain away,  
>So before I end my days<br>Remember_

_My sweet prince, you are the one.  
>My sweet prince, you are the one.<em>

~====o)0(o====~

Matt felt relief thunder over him like a tidal wave as Francis nipped at his lips, the hand that wasn't supporting his weight slipping under the Canadian's t shirt, finding all the most sensitive spots almost immediately. So he _was_ wanted. Desired. He wasn't unlovable. Not that he presumed Francis loved him. He responded to the soft lips pressed against his own slightly chapped ones, answering each question that they asked.

He shivered as a large, rough hand swept across his waist, fingers playing across his ribs and leaving his skin tingling deliciously. He hummed, letting Francis' tongue brush against his own, twirling them together in a mock-battle before giving in and letting the Frenchman taste and explore his mouth. His own tongue arched into the touch, hooking Francis in still further, inviting him to take possession of his mouth. One of Matt's hands wove itself into the elder man's hair savouring the texture and the smell of roses heavy in the air.

And that air was fast becoming hot and heavy; not fully satisfying either of their ragged gasps for breath. Francis pulled away, panting for air, a faint smile ghosting about his kiss-red lips. Slowly, that smile widening every second until it became a giddy grin that stretched from ear to ear. He pressed soft kisses to the corners of Matthieu's mouth, and then again to his lips. This kiss didn't have quite the same flash-burn of desire, but it communicated similar feelings. _I want you_, the kiss said_. I need_ _you_, it told him. _More than I want any drug_. It was a scary prospect, and Matt knew that if he didn't want to get into anything serious that he should back the fuck out of this now. But he couldn't bring himself to care. The ever-present stubble that graced Francis' chin like the permafrost of lore added just the right prickle to those sweet, too sweet, kisses. He always had liked a little pain with his high. It kept him grounded, and Matthew Williams was nothing if not a grounded individual.

More soft kisses rained down upon his face, his lips that even after they had caught the reigns of oxygenation couldn't quite seem to pull enough oh-two from the air. It made him feel dizzy and lightheaded the way every fairy-tale kiss is supposed to; an intangible, soul-stirring meeting of lips. Of course, fairy-tales, at least the kind Matt had read to the younger children, were all PC and PG. Everything was chaste; the prince got the princess home by 8:30pm and no-body really died. The evil witch saw the error of her ways and became good. No rehab involved. But this was no fairy-tale. This was hot, sweaty, lust-filled kissing. This was more than a peck on the cheek. This was a mess of teeth and tongues, scraping, nipping and laving against each other.

The kisses left a warm, damp trail across Matthew's jaw and down his neck, leaving a rapidly cooling path in their wake. Somehow, Matt couldn't seem to begrudge the spit on his skin as he felt teeth press into his skin, sparking adrenaline in his veins. Just like the thrill of shooting up. It was probably a terrible thing that he was comparing making out with Francis to getting high, and if the elder man knew then he most likely wouldn't be thankful for the comparison. But Matt couldn't bring himself to care as a pink tong laved over the bite, pushing firmly against the flesh before sucking it into his mouth and leaving a possessive mark, the shape and colour of the petals of the roses that the Canadian had given him; ruby red fading to bruise purple.

Francis whispered something into the mark that Matt couldn't quiet discern, but it sounded quite suspiciously like, "Mine." The Frenchman taunted a shy nipple until it stood, its defiance raising it from the goose-bump spangled flesh of Matt's pale chest. The elder man let out a wicked chuckle that did nothing to dispel his racing heartbeat. Matt watched as the pink tongue slid from between those smiling lips and gave his stiff flesh a languid lick. It was a cheap imitation of fellatio; not quite so pleasurable, but somehow the gesture was a lot more intimate; _all of you is beautiful to me, even something so insignificant as this._ And though it was less of a thing; Matt had always thought those buds of flesh to be superfluous on a man and done his best to avoid them at all costs, there was something so endearing about the way Francis attended to the areolas, making them contract delightedly, drawing small moans and gasps from the strangely reluctant Canadian, the way he drenched each dear stiffened nub of flesh with attention as though it was Matthieu's most fetching feature. With every soft touch of Francis' lips to his skin, the horny Canuck felt more and more reluctant. This was not quite what he had envisioned. He was after a quick fuck. This was beginning to feel suspiciously tender. Scratch beginning, Matt thought as the Frenchman's mouth left another rose-petal hickey just under his ribs, that time he definitely said 'mine.'

And he had. Francis just couldn't help himself. His Matthieu, willing and supplicant beneath him. The young man's fluttering breath gusting over his hair. Each little sigh was possession. He wanted to enjoy this. He wanted Matthieu to enjoy this. He wanted to enjoy him enjoying it. And he would. He kissed the hem of the Canadian's jeans, letting his tongue flick under the material, eliciting a sharp intake of air and a soft sigh of,

"_Francis_."

"_Oui_, Matthieu?" he purred, a finger tracing the wet path his tongue had made and further. He stroked the coarse ribbon of curls that would in time lead him to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

"_S'il vous plait_," he groaned as nimble and practised fingers popped the button on his pants. Matt closed his eyes. He didn't need to see this. Not the look of utter rapture of Francis' face. He certainly didn't need to see the slow descent of his zipper. Not when the dragging buzz rang so loudly in his ears. Not when he could feel the release of the tight fabric peeling back from his erect cock. What sweet relief.

"Please what, chou?" the Frenchman hummed. He was teasing him of purpose, Matt was sure of it. He just wanted to get his rocks off and there was Francis, his face hovering above his crotch with a shit-eating grin plastered all over his face. Did he get some kind of kick from this? The Canadian, at this point, neither knew nor cared. All he knew was that is someone didn't touch his dick soon; he wouldn't be responsible for his actions.

"Touch me!" he demanded, his hips jerking upwards slightly to prove his point. Francis' grin faltered into a warm smile; sweet, tender and loving and Matt had to close his eyes again. He didn't want to see that face. That amounted to more than just desire. That was love, surely. He didn't want to be loved today. Today he just wanted to have sex. Hot, sweaty jungle sex. He didn't want feeling, emotions or strings. He was going to have to move out of this flat if this kind of emotion continued. This desire to let Francis make love to him rather than just urging him into a quick – satisfying – lay.

"Like this?" the heel of the Frenchman's hand pushed firm circles into the base of Matt's cock while his strong calloused fingers wrapped around everything they could reach through the fabric of his boxers and the annoyingly still-present jeans.

"Hmmm! Harder," the Canadian breathed happily, groaning as his host complied with a will, slowly divesting him of pants and undergarments, pulling Matt's shirt over his head with one hand, with the aid of the suddenly co-operative young man. Matthew returned the favour with gusto, his fingers running through the buttons on Francis' shirt faster than either of them would have thought possible had they really been focusing on silly little things like buttons. The Frenchman paused in his actions and began to sit up, a searching look in his misty eyes as his head turned toward his bedroom. Matt clicked to what he was looking for and flushed red, partially from irritation that he wasn't the centre of attention even when they were about to get it on, and partially because he had just realised that aside from the boxers hanging around his ankles, he was completely naked and Francis was still mostly dressed.

"Francis," he said, causing the other's head to snap around to face him, his expression once more unbearably tender.

"Yes, chou?"

"If you get up now; I don't care if it would be more comfortable somewhere else, I don't care if you want to get lube, then I will take you so hard that you'll have to call in sick for the rest of the week, do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Francis' grin became a leer as Matthieu took his right hand and put it too his lips. The Frenchman watched in delight as the Canadian took his ring-finger into his mouth, tongue sliding slowly from base to tip, returning his earlier act of mock-fellatio. Matt sucked the digit into his mouth, laving it with saliva before doing the same to its two brothers. Francis thought he might go mad. The sweet, somewhat shy boy he had taken in had such skill with his mouth and tongue, no wonder he didn't waste it on words. He wondered what that, sultry mouth would feel like on his member. How would those sweet, chapped lips feel against the blood-warm flesh of his hard cock?

A string of saliva followed Francis' fingers from Matt's lips before it spiralled down, breaking and leaving its cold trail across that truly northern chest. His heart beating apace, the Frenchman touched his lips apologetically to the base of Matthew's manhood before teasingly tracing the ring of his entrance with an index finger. The elder man pushed in gently, moving cautiously and immediately seeking out the spot that would make this so much better for his partner.

It felt good to be able to apply that word to his Matthieu; partner. Equals. In this together.

He knew he had found it when the Canadian arched his back, a sound, part grunt, part moan wrenching itself from his vocal chords. _Et voila_.

Another finger was added, and another, teasing and stretching as they caressed Matt from the inside out. The Canuck closed his eyes, hoping to close off this too-sweet sensation that was overwhelming him. It didn't block it out, if anything the feeling was heightened by his lack of sight, on sense becoming acute to make up for the absence of another. He didn't want to feel his heart aching like this. He wanted forget about heartache and love and all those stupid fairy-tales that told him a white knight was going to come galloping in to save him from himself. _He_ had been a white knight, hadn't he? A fucking retard, but a good person none the less. He didn't deserve Matt's hatred, but he had it completely. And Francis, dear, sweet, Francis was only trying to help, had been inadvertently attracted to him. That was a little puzzling; the Canadian knew he was reasonably attractive, but nothing especially special. Not like the Frenchman, who was classically beautiful. Not quite rugged enough to be handsome, but lacking in the femininity that would make him womanly. He didn't need to be treated as the woman to his host's gender confusion. He knew that that wasn't what the other man was going. He knew that Francis only had the best, purest intentions. That made the stinging pain, the kind that the singing blade leaves in its wake, that much worse.

"Not a virgin, Francis," he grunted as the three fingers stretching him pulled apart a little painfully.

"Such a pity," the Frenchman purred huskily, his deep accent throbbing through is digits and by extension; Matthew, "I would have taken great pleasure in deflowering you, chou. You would have been spoilt for any other lover." _And you will be_, he added silently, _you will never want anyone else physically. Let me be the one to satisfy you._

"I'll believe that when I feel it," Matt said shortly, hoping the other man would take the hint.

"Lube-" Francis was cut off by Matthew's savage growl of,

"For fuck's sake!" and then his own wanton moan as he was pushed back and his pants practically ripped from his hips. The younger man felt a victorious grin of his own grace his lips before he opened them, blowing cool air over the hot tip of the Frenchman's cock, running his tongue over the crown and then just under the head; licking precum from it like drips from an ice-lolly.

It was Francis' turn to let loose with gasps and moans as Matthieu pressed the tip of his tongue to the thick vein that underscored his manhood before relaxing his throat and swallowing, the muscles of his trachea pulsing around the hot flesh. He had wondered what it would be like to feel those slightly roughened lips against the sensitised skin of his erection, and now he knew. It was better than he could have imagined. Even if jealousy boiled in his blood; this was obviously a skill learned of long practise.

"_Dieu_!" Francis choked out, grabbing Matt a little more forcefully than he had intended and pulling him from his cock. He glazed at the Canadian's blow-job lips, his flushed cheeks, his disarrayed hair and his heavy-lidded eyes; now almost midnight blue in their lust.

"Can we fuck _now_?" he demanded a little breathlessly.

"_Bien s__û__r_," the Frenchman panted dazedly, pushing Matt back the way he had come, slinging one long leg over his shoulder and wondering where exactly the most-times (but not in the sack, apparently) shy Canadian had learnt to blow cock like a professional whore. And he had seemed to enjoy it. Lining himself up, carefully he surged his hips forward, burying himself balls-deep in the demanding young man beneath him.

Listening to Matthieu's laboured breathing and the occasional keening sighs was not something he would have considered to be torturous a few minutes ago, but now? Worse than most hells he had lived through. Every fibre of his being was screaming at him to move, but he refused; not until he was given the all clear.

The 'all-clear' came in the form of the one of Matt's legs that was not slung over Francis' shoulder snaking about his waist and pulling the pleasure-drunk Canadian even closer to his French friend.

With a will, Francis pulled back and thrust back; revelling in the heat that stole is heart and his breath. Together they worked in tandem, creating a sweaty friction that was steadily driving them both, if not over the edge then at the very least insane. Matthew pushed his hips back to meet the Frenchman's in a desperate attempt to get him deeper inside, to feel the frantic possession of his body in every corner of his being. Every nerve in his body was a live wire, striped of its insulation and left bare to the horrifically delicious tortures of electric pleasure.

Francis, to his credit, had taken the hint and wasn't taking it easy on his lover, taking every opportunity he could to drag yells and moans from those lush, bitten lips, silencing him with kisses and teasing his nipples, never slowing in his juggernaut's pace.

Matthew could feel the crackling of his orgasm building up in his belly like the static of a coming storm.

"Fr-**fuck**-_Francis!_" he yelled hoarsely, his muscles clenching around that delightful intrusion, clamping down on its movements. The Frenchman grunted his assent and drove the head of his cock home into Matt's prostate. The younger man's vision flooded with static and starbursts as he came, a whisper of the elder man's name on his lips.

Francis pulled out, the constriction of his own release strangling any exclamation he may have made. He let his head drop back, panting for breath. After about a minute, in which his heaving chest calmed, the French whore looked down at Matthew, a complacent grin on his face. The Canadian was still gasping for air, his face and chest stained with the pink of debauchery.

"Well? Have I proven myself?"

Matt nodded breathlessly, "I feel like I should pay you for that. _Wow_. Thanks for not, you know, inside me. . ." He trailed off, his shyness coming back to him, "I hate the mess," he mumbled.

Francis nodded, "I understand it gets everywhere." The Canadian hummed his accent, frown lines marking his contemplation.

"Franc for your thoughts?" the elder asked, cleaning up their combined ejaculations. The nice thing about always being prepared for a nosebleed was that there was a box of tissues handy in every room to clean up the blood. Or the semen, you know; whatever. Speaking of, he could feel the tickle in his nose that signalled blood flow where there shouldn't be.

"You know how Antonia thinks you have at least thirteen STDs?" he asked, reality crashing down around him now that the fog of lust had burnt from his mind. The Frenchman laughed heartily;

"Speculation only. I have myself checked regularly; I'm clean. What about you?" Matt smiled ruefully,

"Spotless. I'm a neat freak. I've never even really done this," he waved a hand at Francis, "before."

"I doubt it," the elder blonde grinned, "it takes years of practise to get as good as I am."

The Canadian shook his head, sweaty hair sticking to his face, "I meant the whole _spontaneous sex with a stranger_ thing," he muttered, looking away. Francis leant in, cupping Matthew's cheek in a calloused palm,

"Matthieu, _amour_," it felt _so good_ to call him that after endless months of having the endearment perched on the very tip of his tongue, "We aren't strangers." His fingers moved to brush the damp, strawberry-blonde waves behind an ear, but Matt batted his hand away.

That was too sweet, too sincere. It was polished and refined, not like the clumsy, childish sincerity that had preceded it, but it was still too much. He wasn't ready. Not for this kind of sweetness. Francis didn't deserve such blatantly damaged goods, and he didn't deserve to feel unworthy again.

He looked at his host's hurt, confused face, wishing that he didn't need space to breathe right now. Wishing that he could just forget pain and fall onto that broad chest and snuggle. He liked to snuggle after sex. But not now. He didn't want the kind of intimacy that that implied. Or did he? He did? Didn't? He was too confused right now. He was dead tired, but he needed to take a run. He needed the adrenaline to clear his head and let his muddled thoughts flow into a cohesive unit. One that made sense of these feelings.

"I can't do this now, Francis. I'm sorry," He stood up, pulling his jeans and boxers stuffed down the side of the couch, he tugged them on, wrestling into his shirt.

Francis sat in icy stillness watching his perfect dream recoil in on itself and implode_. Matthieu. Why are you getting dressed? Where are you going? Why are you leaving me? When will you be back? Will you be back at all?_

"I'm going for a run. I need to think."

_Please, Matthieu, please. Think about staying. Think about staying with me, exactly as we were, naked and laughing, basking in the fading strains of our lovemaking. Please. Stay with me_.

"_Je suis a toi_," the word's slipped from the Frenchman's numb lips without his heed. _I'm yours_.

"I know," said Matthew as he shrugged on his jacket, shoving his feet into his shoes, sounding as though the statement weighed heavy on him, "That's what I need to think about."

~====o)0(o====~

_Never thought I'd have to retire  
>Never thought I'd have to abstain<br>Never thought all this could backfire  
>Close up the hole in my vein.<em>

_Never thought I'd get any higher  
>Never thought you'd fuck with my brain<br>Never thought all this could expire  
>Never thought you'd go break the chain<em>

_Me and you baby  
>Used to flush all the pain away<br>So before I end my day, remember._

_My sweet prince, you are the one.  
>My sweet prince, you are the one.<em>

_You are the one._

_You are the one._

~====o)0(o====~

**3000 words porn, 230 words plot. I am SO ashamed. So ashamed.  
>For my sake, just pretend this never happened, right? Okay. Just ignore the bad sex and the feeble attempts to salvage my story line. They never happened, neither of us were here. A big boy did it and- oh fuck, I have a dirty mind. <strong>

**The next chapter will be the last. **

**~RutheLa**


	11. Comfortably Numb

**Goldpen, 1silentmouse, graysam, Shizuka Aralia, Cacow, DeiDeiArtistic, Tala, Madee-Chan, KajiMori, EmoChickOfDeath and OneGirlStudio; thank you so much for your support. I'm glad you all stopped by to read my story. This pairing needs more love. **

**Aw, fuck, I'm crying. TT_TT**

Comfortably Numb – Pink Floyd.

~====o)0(o====~

_Come on, now  
>I hear you're feeling down<br>Well I can ease your pain  
>Get you on your feet again<em>

~====o)0(o====~

The zinging sensation of pain up his spine as he ran only aided his thought process. It occurred to Matthew, in a slightly life-altering epiphany, that he was kind of a masochist. It was a pity that that wasn't exactly the life-altering opinion he needed to have right now.

Or was it?

Was he predisposed towards emotionally hurtful relationships the same way he was predisposed towards a hockey brawl? If so, that would explain almost every relationship he had ever been in? Was it because he had never known his parents and felt he should grieve them even though he had never missed them as people but rather as concepts.

No, if he was going to do this the Freudian way he was going to need a serious quantity of alcohol in his system. He liked Francis he really did. He was sweet and romantic and, judging by his jelly-legs and the burn in his back, damn good in bed. Brilliant in fact. Best orgasm ever. And the sounds the Frenchman had made when Matthew had swallowed his cock. . . It would be nice to hear those again, just to make sure he hadn't been having an auditory hallucination.

The Canadian clasped his hands to his scalding hot cheeks. Satellites were probably recording this blush as some kind of extra-terrestrial occurrence. But that didn't make it any less true. He liked Francis. He liked the idea of being with Francis. It would mean stability, sweet mornings and sultry evenings. It would mean cuddles in the kitchen and playful bickering about who would cook. It would mean the continuation and furthering of their already domestic lifestyle.

But it would also mean that if and when Francis left (or kicked him out, it was his apartment after all) it would make the pain of Alfred dumping him seem like a paper cut in comparison. A paper cut that someone had squeezed lemon juice into, admittedly, but a paper cut none the less.

The question of age? Perhaps not so much that as of maturity and experience. He was barely twenty years old. That counted him quite firmly as being young and naïve. So maybe he was an idealist, but Francis was to, he knew that without being told because, be honest, how many pacifist drug dealers are there who try to help the people they should be selling to stay clean?

Matthew couldn't help but laugh at the thought, speeding up from a fast jog to actually running, lengthening his strides. He let the slap of his shoes on damp tar drown out his thoughts for a minute, focusing on the muscles in his legs and the breath in his lungs.

"Hey, Speed Racer, where are you going?"

Matt stopped, turning around, his chest heaving. There, where he had honestly expected to find a policeman, there was a blonde man in a wheelchair. Jogging on the spot, he answered,

"Nowhere, sir," curse his polite upbringing, he sincerely wanted to tell his man to piss off; he was trying to sort out his life here!

"Just don't forget your way back home," the man shrugged, rolling himself away. Matthew stopped all movement, not jogging, not breathing.

His way home? Canada was his place of birth, and he would always feel a kinship with the place – patriotism was something ingrained, and he would always be thankful to the land that taught him to speak French.

But that wasn't his home anymore. He had always been told – by the younger children, admittedly – that home wasn't where you were, but who you were with. He had come to think of Francis as home. He was safe there, he was happy there. There wasn't anything he couldn't do, and nothing he could do wrong. Was this the fairy-tale home he had been looking for, and why had that search been subconscious until now?

Could he really stand to be in a stable home right now when he wasn't sure enough of himself to be stable? He barely knew who he was. He didn't have any established identity aside from druggie. He couldn't just morph into Francis' personality. He wouldn't become some kind of add-on, a parasite boyfriend. Was he going to be his boyfriend? He needed to know himself first. He couldn't go back to being his old self; the good student, the Canadian, the orphan. That just didn't work. You couldn't just undo all that pain and strife. He couldn't go back to being the heroin junkie, not after all the time and energy both he and Francis had expended on his wellbeing.

If he didn't know who he was as an individual, how the hell was he supposed to know who he was in a relationship; let alone keep his identity separate from Francis'?

And there he went again, thinking immediately of Francis when he thought of a significant other.

But was that really such a bad thing?

Francis was a true romantic. He believed in roses and fairy-tales. In princes and white knights. He believed in kisses that woke you from a hundred years of sleep and any other enchantment you cared to name. True love could conquer all.

It was gratingly idealistic, optimistic and naïve, but it was all Francis, and that made it a whole lot easier to swallow. He carried all his childish beliefs in a way that made you want to believe them too. It would be nice to live in that world. That fairy-tale bubble where all the bad can be overcome by love.

But was he in love with the idea? Did he ever want to love again? Was there really any point when three months in he was going to be forgotten and cast aside, never looked at again, always through, as though he was the invisible man? The invisible Matthew.

He didn't know how long he had been standing there, staring out into space over the pedestrian walkway, but it was obviously too long, because it was almost pitch black now, and the sweat he had shed earlier was practically frozen on his skin. Shaking his head to clear it, he forced his stiff muscles to move and started jogging back in the direction he had come, hoping he could remember the way back.

~====o)0(o====~

Francis leapt to his feet when he heard a key in the lock. His heart thudded nervously in his chest as Matthieu walked in, looking bedraggled and cold.

"Here, you look frozen," the Frenchman said quietly, holding out a blanket to the shivering Canadian, who accepted it with a nod, shrugging off his icy jacket and wrapping the thick fleece tightly around himself.

"I'm going to make coco," Matt said, "would you like some?" Francis nodded dumbly, wondering if it would be inappropriate to grab the other man and kiss him before thanking him for coming back. It was nine at night and he had left at quarter to three. Six hours. He had thought that he was never coming back; though he knew better than to break out the booze this time. He had to be sober.

Once the chocolaty drink was steaming gently into two mugs on the coffee table and they were both seated on the futon – having decided against the couch for, ahem, obvious reasons, Matt turned to face his host.

"I don't know who I am," he stated bluntly. Francis felt his jaw drop,

"Pardon?" he croaked in surprise.

"I mean as a person. I don't know who I am; I don't know what I want from life, where I'm going or who I am supposed to be in society. I have no sense of who I am as an individual. And it doesn't help that people keep asking who I am."

The Frenchman started to interrupt, but the younger man held up a finger to silence him,

"But you never seemed to care about that, and I'm not entirely sure that even you know what you want from life beyond roses. So I figure that I am who I am, and I'll pick it up as I go along. And if you're willing to help me find out who I am, then I'm willing to give, you know, _us_ a try."

The coco was stone cold by the time they got around to drinking it.

~====o)0(o====~

_Can you stand up?  
>I do believe it's working good<br>That'll keep you going through the show  
>Come on it's time to go<em>

~====o)0(o====~

***Sniffles* I hate ending on an uneven number. *Blows nose***

**Ok, I am way too sad about this story ending. Again, thank you all for reading, it means a lot to me that you all spammed my friend's inbox with reviews.**

**Byebye~!**

**Love, Ruth. **


End file.
